Forget This, Will You?
by MarvelDC superhero fan
Summary: Jane seems to be having more fun, but more brews behind the scenes between Lisbon and Jane. Falling from so far to realizations are more painful than they may seem. Final chapter up!
1. Something Broken, Something Borrowed

I sit alone in my office, pen tapping against the desk to the rhythm of my beating heart, waiting for Patrick Jane to enter.

In the bullpen, I hear laughter (not from Jane because I don't think he's ever laughed since he lost his family), though I can imagine his winning smirk as the team sits around talking, having fun. Without me. He's spending a lot more time with the team lately, bringing out high spirits and more jokes, of shared evenings of different activities. He's also talking much more to Grace, and she seems to enjoy it. I'm not going to think too hard about why it bothers me.

I release a sigh I hadn't realized I had been holding, and at that moment Jane ambles in.

"Sit down," I attempt to order, but his gaze is outside of this room as he looks through the glass at Grace Van Pelt. He gives her a wink, and then proceeds to flop onto my couch.

Anger simmers in the pit of my stomach, and if he continues like this it'll very likely come to a boil all over him and his damn casual attitude.

"So," he gestures to me with his hands, even though his head faces the other wall, "What did you want to see me about?"

Oh yes. My patience is evaporating quickly, even more than usual.

"You insulted the mayor of a town, called him a liar, disobeyed the town's police chief, put an officer in handcuffs, and almost got your head shot off because you tried to play hero and talk down a criminal!" My hands clench, and my jaw with it. I'll be grinding my teeth in my sleep tonight; that is, if I don't have to stay up all night working on the paperwork regarding the complaints.

"Meh. I caught the criminal, the mayor was lying and he just needed a wake-up call, and the police were bumbling and would have completely bungled the plan if we had involved them."

"Have you forgotten that you're supposed to be smarter than most people, because only an idiot would go out into the woods alone with a dangerous, armed suspect?" The words lash out and finally wound him.

He sits up with a jolt, fluidly pivoting towards me. In the back of my mind, I think this won't turn out well.

"I know you're angry with me, but please don't take it out on me this way."

He's up from the sofa now, moving to my desk, a strain in his tone.

"I'm not some annoying fly you can swat away. I'm sick and tired of you and your attitude that you don't need to follow any goddamned rules. If you take someone down in the process, you simply say, who cares?" I'm standing across from him, palms heavy and wide on the desk, ready for anything he chooses to throw at me next.

His head bows down, his palms placed on the desk like mine, leaning in. I would think he's praying, but praying and Jane do not go together. All I can see is his shining hair, his face completely encased in a curtain of shadows. My anger bubbles and lies in wait.

"I wish I didn't have to be here. I wish we weren't having this discussion. I wish I was far away."

The words flow through me, encasing me. My anger is fading away as his voice soaks in.

"I wish we could forget this twisted tale we weave day after day, year after year. To erase the mind of the unneeded, unwanted. Hmm." The veins in his hands stand out more prominently, the tendons tensed. I squeeze my eyes shut, like a child afraid to listen to the truth.

"If I could, I suppose it would be sensible to erase them from your mind as well. Things would be much simpler."

This is dead, emotionless and drained.

No, no, I pray into the blackness of my closed lids. Don't do this to me.

By the time I open my eyes, he's left. I crumple into my chair.

The anger's gone. But the words churn instead deep in my heart. The pen rolls into my hand, tapping out my racing heartbeat, as the words mix and tumble and scream to escape, to be understood.

The pen drops to the floor. Painfully, I shut down the words beating inside, push it away. I cannot, in any way, allow it to escape now.

_How__long__can__that__last?_ mocks the voice inside my head.

I grab a new pen and start on the large pile of paperwork sitting at my desk.


	2. Secret Lies

**Author's Note: Another story that takes place after Pink Tops. I don't own anything; if I did I would have tried the "Jane loses his memory and may laugh" angle a bit sooner. Well, maybe! I enjoyed the episode this week; I had a lot of laughs, especially with Jane's "arts and crafts" project and the ending scene with the ice cream was so sweet. Though I'm looking forward to next week's episode even more. I hope it lives up to expectations. Let me know your thoughts on the story and your thoughts on the Mentalist episode this week and coming up if you want. **Oh, and there'll be two more final chapters soon, the next one in Cho's perspective. **Enjoy!**

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><p>Five days have passed, and I'm eking out an existence. I ignore Jane, not talking much, just working on paperwork and shutting myself in my office as much as possible, especially since we haven't had a tough case in several days. Part of me is thankful for it, and part of me is guilty that it's for the wrong reasons instead of the right one.<p>

Not that my heart and mind are actually sure about right and wrong these days.

Glancing around quickly, I make sure no one is around, and make a move to leave the building, hopefully with no distractions.

Almost to the elevators, I hear footsteps behind me and hope it's not him.

"Thought you had disappeared. That much paperwork?"

Jane stands in front of me, arms swinging and bouncing on the balls of his feet. He has a smile on his face, but he looks more like he's going to perform a long jump than have a casual conversation with me. His gaze shifts from my face to my shoes to my face. He attempts a wider smile.

If I didn't know better, I would think he's nervous.

_Having__to__spend__time__in__your__company__when__he__doesn__'__t__want__it,__perhaps?_the voice again scoffs.

"So." He swings his arms again in circles. "Grace and the team and I are planning to go to O' Malley's, have some dinner. You want to join us?"

"No thanks, I have a lot to get done at home." My insides quake with desperation to leave, but my voice seems so calm, so impassive. Who is this, and what has she done with me?

"Well, Grace pointed out we're sort of leaving you behind."

So it wasn't even his idea. I bite my inner lip, a pain to distract from the constricting of my heart.

"I can't tonight, but thanks for asking. It's nice of her."

"It's not just her." I blink twice as the light in his eyes flicker, and then the switch is searched for so the light can be turned back on.

"Good night." Death on the outside, transformed into quiet and politeness. I move to the elevators.

"Teresa, are you sure you're doing okay?" The first word is shaky, the others less so.

I turn around again; my bones chill because I know what I have to do, and that I'll deeply regret it.

"I'm perfectly okay Jane. I appreciate you asking. But you don't need to worry about me. I'm fine, really."

Jane's searching my face, my body language, anything to make sure. He most likely sees a calm, slightly tired face that is not breaking eye contact, and a body with no tells to give away anything different than what my words tell him.

His body is finally still as he quietly bids me good night. His arms raise above his head in a stretch and his steps are long as he walks away, but I can hear the heaviness in his steps, a finality to them.

The ride in the elevator lasts too long, and the grip on my arms to keep me from breaking apart, crying, or both, isn't as strong or as distracting as I hoped it would be.

I rush to my car, bypassing the guard stand, practically ripping open the driver's door to my car. Gripping the steering wheel for some hope of reality, I feel everything draining out of me.

Desperate to forget, desperate for any distraction, I bury my hand in my pocket and cling onto my cell phone.

_Dial with shaking hands. Take three very deep breaths. Put the shaking phone to your ear. Wait for the voice of your dear but troublesome baby brother._

"Hey, Reese, what's going on? Wait a sec. Oh, sorry, I'm busy right now; can you call me back?"

I'm finally choking, trying to form unsayable words, but the flood is reaching my feet, and it'll drown me within a minute or two.

"Reese? Is everything okay? I have a moment. Forget what I said."

Who knew my baby brother would be watching over me?

"Umm. I'm sorry Tommy. I just had a bad case, and I just wanted to hear your voice."

"No problem. Anyone's asses I can kick that are upsetting you?"

My lips quiver with a mix of love and sadness. I ease his worries and change the subject to him. But the conversation has to end, and my free hand has to take its death grip off the steering wheel. The silence must be in cahoots with my heart because it allows my heart to experience every memory, every word Jane uttered over the last five days.

I've never been able to lie to him before because he's always been able to figure me out. But today, all the rules have changed by my lying to him right to his face without him even realizing.

The flood breaks free from my eyes, rushing and flowing. With my hands halfway to my eyes to block it, the final drops of memory and emotion permeate through my heart and mind.

Head pressed to the wheel, hands hugging myself, then reaching my mouth, I'm sobbing over every wrong that has ever washed over me. I cry for this last week, for my realization of what Jane meant, for my lies, for Grace's pain and Rigsby's worry and Cho's silent concern, for Hightower and Minelli, for...

Sam Bosco, dear Sam, my friend, who died at Red John's hands because he was working on the Red John case. For every person who ever had their throat cut and a smiley face painted in their own blood. For Angela and little Charlotte Jane, and finally for Patrick because one mistake lead to a bloody path of pain and destruction, and for the feelings I have for him that are definitely not reciprocated in any way.

Even with my sobs, I can't make any noise. The silence surrounds me even here, when there's no reason to hold back.

Finally, my head sinks back as I feel around in my own skin.

For years, I've been Saint Teresa, and each person could give a different reason for the name, unearthly, unreal, too distant to touch. But through it all, I've been giving to others, as saints do, of their time, of their patience, of their care.

Saints are not selfish. The moment I allowed my selfishness over keeping Patrick Jane close to my heart, I destroyed any chance to distance myself from the reality.

So now I am simply a mortal woman. More tears drip down my face and onto my shirt as I consider how I can weather this. Once my blood spilt onto the carpet in the attempt to keep the fragile relationship we kept between us alive, the spot can never be erased. I always thought I'd get fired because of him, not ripped open this way.

The hole in my heart is still bleeding, and I had thought I could patch it up and ignore it, but today showed me it is still quite raw.

I don't know how and if it can ever truly heal.

I need to pretend everything is normal and drive myself home.

Somehow, my fingers are drawn to the always present cross on my necklace, a sign of my former sainthood. For a second, a voice whispers inside me to rip it off my neck and never wear it again.

But then again, if I'm a mortal woman, I have less power and more deities to pray to.

As I drive down the block, I ignore the fact that the voice that told me to rip off the necklace sounded very much like Jane's.


	3. Saint Teresa's Out of Business

**Author's Note: So I wanted to title this chapter officially: Saint Teresa's Out of Business, No Service for Patrick Jane or The Like, but they wouldn't let me. At least you all know what I intended. This is Cho's POV. I hope I have him in character. I wish they had more of Cho sometimes on the show. Though I am worried about him and his back troubles. Maybe Jane could hypnotize him and make it better? Or maybe just more time on Jane's couch so Jane can spend more time in Lisbon's office... Anyway, let me know what you think of the chapter.**

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><p>I'm busy reading, but I'm closest to the phone in comparison to the chatting Rigsby and Van Pelt, so I pick it up on the second ring, expecting a new case.<p>

I don't expect Lisbon on the other side of the line.

"Cho, I'm really not feeling well, so I won't be able to come in today." Her voice is groggy and weak, and in the background I hear her curse, probably in her attempt to plug in the coffeemaker.

"Okay." My book is forgotten, and I see there's a lull in their conversation; they're waiting to hear what's going on.

"If there's any new cases -" a harsh cough, and another muffled curse "-you're in charge and you can inform me tomorrow."

"Sure thing."

She says goodbye, and I hang up the phone.

"What is it?" Grace leans over in her chair, her long hair moving with it. I notice Rigsby has his eyes on her, mesmerized. Still lovesick.

"The boss is sick today, so I'm in charge. If we get any new cases, we'll brief her tomorrow." I pick up my book again. No need to concern myself with anyone else's business.

"That's terrible. She looked fine yesterday," Grace interjects.

Rigsby adds, "And when Jane last talked to her at around 6, he said everything was okay."

I pause in turning the page of my book, because I know what time I left the building, and...

Now it makes sense.

The next thing I know, Jane's roaming into the bullpen. "Speak of the devil" is the phrase. Well, I really wouldn't call Jane that, firstly because I wouldn't, and secondly, the devil, after learning who Jane is, would want nothing to do with him.

His pace is slow, his eyes half-open, hair mussed, and a five o'clock shadow budding on his chin like a forgotten coffee stain on a shirt. Van Pelt knows Jane is going to make a really big fuss when he hears the news about Lisbon, so she jumps up to make him a cup of tea and Rigsby follows close behind.

If the situation weren't as serious as I think it'll be, I'd take more time to note that later I'd have to endure Rigsby waxing on about why Van Pelt seems to be so much more doting on Jane lately that she has been on Rigsby. Though I know Rigsby and Jane are in very separate categories to her, so he shouldn't worry.

Jane spins around in Van Pelt's office chair, his eyes glancing all over the room, then to me reading my book. Not that I actually had a chance to read a page of it since I got to the office.

"Where's Lisbon?" His voice seems cheerful, light. Not appropriate for this type of morning.

"Not coming in today."

That gets him into action as he leans in my direction, his face shifting into confusion. A sliver of shadows covers part of his face.

"What do you mean? She on assignment?"

Still not looking at him, I reply, "Called in sick."

"She never does that." I'm not sure if he's talking to me or to himself. The sliver gets larger and covers a bit more, reaching his right eye.

Quickly, he stands up, but I'm faster and say, "You can't go see her."

He twists on the balls of his feet and says petulantly, "I most definitely can. I have a right to as her friend."

"Just don't." But he's moving. "You'll be the last person she wants to see."

He's striding back in, his steps more pronounced.

"Of course she'd want to see me." His smile is so large, so blinding. I see right through his lies.

"Everything you do and say has a large effect on her. Don't visit her today." The book's out of my hands, and I'm staring right at him. He knows it's an order.

The storm's rising, the shadows deepening and rising to consume him.

"What do you know that I don't?" It's a whisper, but it's definitely not calm or patient or in any way like his attitude a minute ago. It's wild and disturbed and dangerous, with rivulets of desperation running through it.

I move towards the back of the bullpen, cleaning up, finding files, then walking back to my desk to file them. I'm completely focused on my work, ignoring him.

Suddenly, he is crouched beside my chair, eyes dark and pupils dilated. It almost takes away any impression he has a soul. Every muscle is tensed, every neuron ready to do what he must to make me tell: hypnosis or suggestions or threats. This is new, unrestrained. I know he could delve deep into my mind and with a tiny suggestion terrify me every time an ordinary word or object pops up in my life, a reminder of my former non-cooperation. The closest he's ever been like this is about Red John. But this is about Lisbon. They hold the strings tighter on each others' hearts than they'll ever know.

"Wouldn't suggest it." Very quiet, very calm. But it bothers him enough. He's leapt back on his feet in a manner of seconds, his hands ruffling through his hair. The shadows recede a bit, but they're still consuming him.

He's actually afraid of what he'll discover.

I know I have to do this, to put them both out of their misery. If not, the team will never get any work done.

"You were the last person she spoke to at 6. At 6:15, I'm leaving and I see her sobbing uncontrollably in her car. Not hard to diagnose her sickness."

He collapses into a chair across from my desk, his pupils constricting until the dark blue is all I can see. For a few moments, he glares at his hands and tries to keep them from shaking.

The mask is gone, the string choking off the ability to carefully craft falsities.

Most days, Lisbon is the glue that keeps the pieces of Jane together, better than anything or anyone else. In fact, she could be considered the toymaker that brings the supposed puppet to life in a beautiful way. But not today. This news breaks him even further, which most wouldn't consider possible.

But then they've never known the fractured puppet called Patrick Jane.

Van Pelt and Rigsby, unaware, enter the room with tea and aimless conversation. Jane changes into a lighter mask, and he gulps down the tea while listening to them.

He plans to fix this, no matter what it takes. And it will take time and effort to fix. Although he seems engaged, I can tell that he's carefully calculating by the slight dilation of his pupils and the shadows forming complicated patterns over his eyes and jaw.


	4. Teresa Swears To Shake It Up

**Author's Note: Ah, the final chapter. This was a fun story, and I hope to do more soon with "Fugue in Red" and stuff with Jane and Grace. Just because it's fun. I love all the responses I've been getting. It makes me smile. Thank you for your reviews and for your alerting/favoriting. Enjoy, and let me know your thoughts. Hopefully it doesn't seem to jump around too much.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything. If I did, let's just say "Fugue in Red" might have ended a bit differently. Even though I loved the episode. **

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><p>To wake with the dread of having to go to work and face Patrick Jane would be one thing. But somehow when I wake the next morning, a plan wriggles through my mind and refuses to let go.<p>

If I'm a mortal, perhaps I can accomplish what I couldn't before. Especially since I have much less to lose.

When I enter the bullpen, I have all the information on our new case.

"We've got a case. Let's go."

"Aren't we going to wait for Jane?" Grace says. Her brows furrow in wonder.

"We can't wait; this is high priority and we don't have time to waste." Shoulder shrugged, I shake my head in mock disappointment.

I hide a smirk as we exit the building, my steps light and my hips swaying slightly as the wind swirls my hair around.

I never realized I had to the potential to drive Jane insane on a case. As long as I follow the "rules" he usually does before he can even blink, I have the upper hand. And it doesn't hurt that I cleared everything with Wainwright, my boss, as an "experiment."

He jumped at it, and that would bother me, but he's young and a bit inexperienced, so if I sold it a certain way, then it's his fault for believing.

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><p>Finally, the case is over, and I can't help but thrill that I have much less paperwork than usual. With a sigh, I lean back in my chair, waiting for Van Pelt to announce the case-closed pizza is here so I can smile my Cheshire cat's grin and scarf down a few pieces.<p>

Then the door swings open and Jane storms in, nostrils flared and eyes dilated, ocean color stormy, his arms directionless.

"What were you thinking?"

"I'm thinking of the pizza I'll be devouring soon, perhaps a slice with pepperoni and then one with everything on top." I glance down to some papers - not that they're important - and start signing them.

"You know that's not what I meant!" He paces back and forth, back and forth. I simply purse my lips and continue my busywork.

Jane stops in his tracks for a second and points a finger at me. "I can't believe you left me behind so I couldn't see the crime scene. You cut short my interview with the victim's parents." He's searching for words now, which is unusual. "But best of all, you concocted a plan without me. When I try to do my job..."

"Which is what, exactly?" My eyebrows rise in confusion.

A glare in my direction, and then he continues his tale of woe. "The moment I do, you act like I don't even matter and put on a cover for the suspect, which almost got you killed - and me in the process. I mean, you want to play hero, but why act like I don't matter enough to be saved! Why the crazy scheme?" I can't tell whether he's angry or scared that I didn't immediately run to his rescue. Wounded pride, then?

"Meh. I thought that was part of your job."

"You're scheming. And don't use my catchphrase!" He clenches his fist, and then drops them as if the image burns him. A defeated boxer aching for a last fight, he adds, "Just stop with the mind games and be yourself."

I snicker at that. Myself? I lean against the wall, arms crossed, preparing for my move.

"I don't know what that is anymore. In this last week and a half, I've woken up feeling fifty different things at once, and it still doesn't make sense. Since my emotions and my stability are going to hell, I thought I'd have fun while I last."

His head swings toward me, pupils constricting.

"Then you need to stop lying to me." The words knock all other plans away, and I flinch in pain but soon regain composure, barely. I push down the meaning behind it.

I slide around to where he leans on the desk, his head bowed, one hand limply at his side with another clutching the desk with knuckles whiter than freshly fallen snow.

"I want you to look at me, because I'll only say this once, and you'll never hear it again." My voice is very low, only for his ears. If I didn't have to think and will myself to say it, I wouldn't even want to hear it.

"You have every right not to want to be here. You have every right to wish we didn't have to go through... what did you say? To 'forget this twisted tale we weave' and erase what we don't want. You've faced" - I swallow the emotion - "a heck of a lot. But don't you even dare presume I want to forget all these years we've known each other, that because of all this crap we've had to face, I would want to throw it away. I would never, never wish that away. And I could never forget someone like you. Even if you could hope to forget me."

_You're really losing it. Why did you say me instead of focusing on the overall memories?_

The emotions between us balance on a high-wire, no knowledge of where to go or how long they can survive so haphazardly much longer.

His breath stirs bits of my dark hair. I wish we weren't so close; I wish we were even closer. I can see my reflection in his extremely dilated pupils, and I wonder if mine are dilated as well, from anger or passion or whatever the two mixed together are.

A memory surfaces with Jane saying that when someone's pupils dilate, it means they really want something.

The pizza's here. I can see the delivery in my peripheral vision.

Without thinking, I turn away and walk out, breaking the moment as the string breaks.

"Wait!" His right hand encircles my wrist, gently but strong enough to sense my thready pulse.

Before I can take another breath, Jane pulls me into an interrogation room and, without missing a beat or letting go of my arm, closes the blinds and swings the door shut.

Then he sits me down in a chair and draws another one to sit opposite me.

His eyes close, and he lifts his head to the ceiling with the wisp of a smile on his lips while encasing both of my cold hands in his.

He whispers, "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

"What?" I blurt out. I'm not even sure if I can attempt an outburst of anger. I keep on blinking with some fear that this may be a dream and I'm actually wrapped in my sheets in my bed at home.

"Teresa, I would never tell you what to do because I know you're too stubborn and you know your own mind. Whatever I told you not to do, you'd do it anyway."

"But..." I interrupt. He covers my lips with the dexterous fingers of his left hand, and I can't help but marvel at the softness of it.

Slowly, he lowers his hand again, staring deep into my diluted, very likely dilated emerald eyes. "So I would never ask you to forget all the years we've known each other."

My eyes narrow slightly in disappointment.

"And I couldn't imagine forgetting all of those moments, or every moment I spend with you and the team. Never for a moment. I simply never wanted to put you through what I've put you through, and I deeply regret that. But it's the only way I feel I can protect you, when I can't accomplish it any other way. That's my truth. I'm sorry I made you believe otherwise."

Our grips tighten on each others' at the same time, so we glance down for a moment, staring at a very different, yet very similar connection that surrounds us.

This time, there is no reason for us to pull away. Not when we allow the feeling of this bond to settle in our hearts and find their place. Not when we realize it could stay there all along, even if we have been fighting it so vigorously, afraid of the jolt of losing it.

When we finally stand up to leave, my hands leap from his more from nervousness than disapproval. I arrange the chairs and fidget with the edge of the table. What now?

Suddenly, just as I move to place my hand on the doorknob, his arms encircle my waist and his body is quite close to mine, a sort of backwards hug. His lips place themselves at my ear. For some reason, my right hand laces into his left, my left places itself comfortably over his right.

"Just so you know, the woman I deeply care about was never Saint Teresa or some other version of what other people see you as. You're Teresa Lisbon, and I revel at the good fortune of basking in the company."

Tears spark in my eyes, close to overflowing, and judging by his voice, I can sense his genuine emotion as well.

But we are at work, the team and the pizza awaiting us, so we exit the room and walk side-by-side.

"What you just did..." I can't really get the words out.

_It means more than I can ever say._

"Until I drive you crazy again." His eyes sparkle with mischief, of new cases with new ways to annoy the heck out of me or his version of fun. Whatever you call it.

"Question." He stops in his tracks and puts on a very serious face. "How much fun did you have acting like me for this case? Seriously."

"On a scale of one to ten: 100." I impishly grin at him, sending light and sparks to him. "I just need to hypnotize someone and I'll be through with my training."

He shakes his head, his smile shining with possibility. "Would you consider Rigsby?"

A few steps more, I place a kiss on his cheek, my cheeks reddening with emotion and enjoyment of my impromptu act. He pauses, awestruck, until I saunter a bit ahead and say, "Don't be a slowpoke. You'll miss out on the pizza."

I was a saint. I transformed into a mortal. Now I understand I have always been Teresa Lisbon. For the first time in a long while, I'm going to figure out what that means, both on my own, and with the very special people in my life.

He smirks as he waves a slice around and collects the bet he placed on how many slices Rigsby ate. Van Pelt pays up in amusement, pretending it's a shame while Cho watches on, biting into a slice of non-pineapple laden pizza, offering me a plate with a slice. He enjoys the the frivolous conversation and adds in his wise two cents about the sense of betting against someone like Jane, although he eventually pays up too.

As I sit and watch, a smile flowers on my lips. I dearly hope the journey will entail lots and lots of time with Patrick Jane.


End file.
